The Billion Dollar Boy

by Charles Sheffield

  She recalled it now, as the pies were gobbled up. "Doobie as bed-making specialist. What would it have been next? Piloting techniques from Scrimshander? Or you might get Uncle Thurgood to give you lessons in calmness and politeness."

  "Makes good pies, though," Doobie said with his mouth full. "This is sweetest. I've waited a long time to get even with him. If you ask me, Uncle Thurgood is worse than ever on this trip."

  "I can believe that," said Shelby, "even though I wasn't here before. I saw him yesterday chewing out Scrimshander. He treats him so rotten. He bullies him and runs him around, and he never has one good word to say to him no matter how hard Scrim tries. He must know that Scrim's not quite all there. So why is he so cruel?"

  He described the meeting from the previous day and concluded, "You'd think that it was some sort of crime for Scrim to want to visit the Kuiper Belt. But why shouldn't he, if he wants to and he can afford it? He may not be too bright, but he still has rights."

  There was a dead, flat silence. Finally Doobie turned on the bed and stared at Grace. "Your move, Grace."

  "I can't. You know I can't."

  "You can. You have to. Shel's one of us now, full-fledged harvester crew. You're the one who told me that, Gracie. He deserves to know."

  "Muv would skin us alive."

  "To know what?" asked Shelby.

  Grace sighed. "All right. But Shel, you have to promise us you'll never tell anybody how you found out."

  "I promise."

  "All right. You know Scrimshander Limes?"

  "Of course I know Scrimshander Limes! What sort of an idiot question is that? I was just talking about him."

  "Well, you don't know him. That's the whole point. There is no such person as Scrimshander Limes."

  "Then who—"

  "Listen closely. This is an awful story, and I don't want to have to tell it more than once. Six years ago, there was a terrible accident back in the Kuiper Belt. A big one. Two hundred and ninety-seven dead."

  "I've heard of that! The Trachten blow-out."

  That threw Grace, and she paused to stare at Shelby. "Where did you learn that?"

  "On the Bellatrix, before I came here."

  "What else do you know?"

  "That only one person survived."

  "Correct. There was just one survivor. A man called Jack Linden."

  "Lucky Jack Linden."

  "That's right. And apparently before the accident he was smart as well as lucky."

  "But he never mined again afterward."

  "He never did. Because he saw everyone he loved die, right there in front of his eyes, while he looked on; and for all his smartness he couldn't do one thing to help. Lucky Jack, you see, with his luck he'd drawn an assignment outside the mining facility. When the accident happened he was at a safe distance. But his wife and parents and children were blown out into space—still alive, but without suits.

  "He could fly over and watch them die, and he did. But he couldn't help them. He stood by, useless, and it wiped his mind clean. When he was picked up he didn't remember anything about the accident. Didn't even know who he was. They treated him, but it didn't do any good. Finally they had to release him. It was either that or keep him permanently in a home, and that didn't seem right because everyone was sure he was harmless. He drifted from mine to mine around the Kuiper Belt for close to a year, a kind of human flotsam.

  "That's when Uncle Thurgood found him. He told the people who Scrim was living with that he'd find a job for him. Then Uncle gave him a new name and brought him from the Kuiper Belt out to the Harvest Moon. They both signed on. Don't ever ask what Uncle told Muv and Dad. They won't say and you'll get into trouble if you so much as mention it.

  "Uncle and Scrim have never been back to the Kuiper Belt. Uncle loves the Belt, and everything about it, but he figures that it's the worst possible environment for Scrim, because it might make him remember what happened. He sometimes dreams about it anyway, and that's bad enough. But now you can see why Muv and the others wouldn't let Scrim go anywhere near the wreck of the Witch of Agnesi, or any other space accident. And that's why Uncle gets so upset when Scrim talks about going for a visit to the Belt."

  "He did all that for Scrim?" Shelby asked. And, when Grace and Doobie nodded, "Then why does he treat him so bad, like he hates him?"

  "He thinks Scrim needs to be chivvied and cared for and pushed along," Grace said, "like a chick and a mother hen. Otherwise Scrim might just sit down and fade away. But don't listen to what Uncle Thurgood says to Scrim. Watch his eyes when he talks to him. He guards him night and day, and if anyone ever did or said anything bad to Scrim he would kill them. He loves him better than his own family."

  "Because he's saving Scrim from something awful, and Uncle knows it even if Scrim doesn't. It's the way of the world. If you were ever to save me, Shel, some way or other, it would make you responsible for me. You'd have to look after me forever."

  Grace blushed, a fierce inexplicable blush that neither her brother nor Shelby noticed.

  "Anyway," she added quickly, "now you know. There's no such person anymore as Lucky Jack Linden. Just Scrimshander Limes."

  "Who else knows?"

  "Everyone on the Harvest Moon, of course. Quite a few people on the other harvesters. We don't tell people, but somehow or other the word gets out."

  The little room was silent for a long time. Even Doobie seemed subdued, until at last he stood up. "Come on, Grace," he said gloomily. "If you want to."

  "Come on where?"

  "To the galley. I'm going to tell Uncle that we took his pies and that we've eaten the lot. I don't feel right. I can use a Thurgood special steaming."

  "Doob, are you crazy?" But Grace followed him out.

  So, after a few seconds, did Shelby. No one before had ever laid a finger on him. It seemed a good time to find out what it was like.

  Chapter Nine

  IN THE past two weeks the talk aboard the Harvest Moon had been more about the Confluence, until that word became a muddled mixture in Shelby's mind. What was the Confluence?

  A location, certainly, a place in space where the multiple great rivers of the Messina Dust Cloud converged and mingled in a way that the crew agreed had to be seen to be believed. It was also a time when all harvesters and many of the rakehells would meet to mark the midpoint of a season. It was an exchange, too, of materials and of news both good and bad. Crews met to commiserate or congratulate or to trade supplies that were running low. And it was also a simple celebration of human beings surviving and thriving so far from Sol.

  When a crew member said "Confluence" it could mean any and all of these things. Careful questioning gradually allowed Shelby to sort out which was which.

  And then, with Confluence just a day away and everything seemingly well-defined and clear, confusion returned.

  Shelby was working with Logan; more accurately, he was watching Logan perform separate activities with each of his eight arms and marveling that the machine could do all that and still talk to him.

  "And why should I not?" Logan was braiding eight different types of cable at once, working each one-handed faster than Shelby could have done it with two. As a tutorial it was discouraging, but it was necessary. Lana Trask herself had examined Shelby's cables earlier that day and pronounced them a disgrace.

  "You do not find it odd," Logan went on, "that you breathe and perspire and blink and walk and digest and talk and hear and see and feel at the same time. Those are independent activities. If you propose at Confluence to talk only when you sit, to refuse to talk because you are eating, and to dance only when you are silent, then you will surely lack partners and company." Logan handed over a half-braided cable. "Here. You have seen how it is done. Now continue."

  Shelby took the braided cable and set to work. "What do you mean when you say danced Does that mean something different in the Cloud?"

  "Different from what?"

  Logan's logic could be maddening.

  "Different
from what the word usually means," said Shelby. "Look, you just mentioned me dancing at the Confluence. Define dancing."

  "Dancing is a rhythmic movement of humans, usually to music, usually in pairs, but sometimes alone or in larger groups."

  "Fine. We agree. But how could that possibly happen at Confluence? The only place on the Harvest Moon that's big enough for anyone to dance is the cargo holds, and they're filthy. I can't see much dancing going on there. And I gather that the other harvesters are about the same size."

  "That is correct." The wire-mop head nodded, then remained bent over looking down at Shelby's hands. "The Confluence dances will take place in Confluence Center, which as I understand it was designed for just such a purpose. However, since I was not designed with dancing capability I have spent little time in the Center habitat."

  "But why do people dance?"

  "Do you mean, why do they dance generally or why do they dance specifically at Confluence? Do not bother to reply, since I cannot answer either question. I have pondered it many times, without achieving a resolution." Logan reached out and took the cable from Shelby. "However, I perceive that braiding cable and talking are not two of the things that you are able to perform simultaneously."

  Shelby stared at the tangled mess that he had created and that the robot was now holding.

  "I must insist," continued Logan, "that all discussion of dancing or other Confluence activities be postponed until after this lesson is completed and Captain Trask has pronounced herself satisfied. Therefore, if you would now be so good as to try again . . ."

  Logan offered the cables to Shelby. He glared at them. In less than ten seconds, Logan had completely undone his efforts of the past five minutes. He cursed and started over.

  But he couldn't possibly let the matter end there. Even if Logan was no help, somebody must be able to tell him. When Lana Trask appeared to examine his work and pronounce it acceptable—for a first cut—he asked her.

  She stared at him. "I thought you knew all about it. Sure, there's a big habitat at the Confluence. The harvester crews built it years ago as a joint effort, and there are dances held in it during every Confluence."

  She was using Confluence to mean two different things, a time and a place, but Shelby was getting used to that.

  "Why?" he asked. "I mean, why go to all the trouble of building something so far away?"

  "Far away from where? We'll be there in another day. Anyway, it was not difficult. There are plenty of raw materials in the Cloud, and machines did all the actual work."

  "But why do it at all?"

  "We need a place to hold the dance in." Lana saw his frustration. "Shelby, I think I see the piece that's missing for you. Before you understand the habitat and the dance, you need to understand something about Cloud folk. We compete with each other, fiercely, while we're harvesting. But deep down we're a lot alike, with more in common than we have with anyone Sol-side who doesn't know the Cloud. Harvester people who marry each other usually make good matches. The trouble is, there's no natural meeting-place for people like Grace to meet possible partners. Once the harvesters head back through the node, they go their own ways until it's time for the next trip out. And once we're here, the harvesters stay clear of each other because we all follow our own plans for sniffing out the best harvest. The one time and place where everyone meets is at Confluence. For young people, or for unattached older people, the Confluence Center dances are very important. Didn't Grace explain this to you?"

  "Not a word."

  "Stew that girl. It's time I had a chat with my daughter. Logan, would you go and tell Grace to come here?—right now, and quickly."

  "You are a full member of the crew of the Harvest Moon, Shelby," she went on as the robot scuttled away on all eight arms. "As someone who is young and unattached, you are expected to attend the Confluence dances. It will be considered very peculiar if you don't. Can you dance?"

  "I have danced." Shelby recalled, with no particular pleasure, the formal balls at the Cheever estate. From the age of twelve onward it had been his lot, scrubbed and starched and polished to the point of discomfort, to serve as an escort to some girl with a "right" family background as defined by Constance Cheever. He had felt awkward and ungainly and hated every second.

  "I'm not very good at dancing," he added.

  "That's all right," said Lana calmly, as Grace entered. She had a nervous look and wouldn't meet Shelby's eye.

  "You'll have plenty of company," Lana went on. "The harvesters don't offer much in the way of dance practice. The important thing is to show up and show willing. Now, Shelby, would you please leave us for a few minutes? I need to talk to Grace. Close the door behind you."

  Shelby did as he was told. But he hadn't in so many words been told not to listen, and he couldn't resist staying and putting his ear to the crack of the door.

  "Why didn't you?" Lana was saying. "You knew I expected you to."

  "But Muv, I just couldn't. I mean, we're used to Shel, and we make allowances. But the other ships wouldn't. Stand back and take a look at him, and imagine what they'd say."

  "Are you worried on his behalf—or are you worried about what Nicky Rasmussen will think about you, if you walk in with Shel?"

  "I don't care what Nicky thinks about me. I'm worried what other people will think about Shel. They'll laugh at him. I mean, have you seen his hair? And his clothes! You've seen how baggy they are at the waist. He must have lost seven or eight kilos since he came aboard, but he keeps on with the same old balloon size. He looks like a clown."

  "Those are trivial fixes. Fifteen minutes in a cosmetics machine."

  "I've tried, Muv. He refuses to go inside one."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know."

  But Shelby did. For six weeks he had been avoiding the cosmetics machines, trimming his own nails and hair and taking clean clothes from the laundry machines, and all the while hoping that no one would notice.

  Apparently everyone had. He groaned to himself, as Lana said firmly, "Well, that has to change. For his sake. Let me get him back in here."

  Shelby retreated quickly to the other side of the room, and was sitting down as Lana opened the door. She gave him one skeptical glance, then beckoned him inside.

  "I understand that you have not been using the cosmetics machines," she said at once, before he could speak. "We can't have that. You must be trim and tidy and well turned out—we all must. We'll be reaching Confluence tomorrow and mingling with people from the other harvesters. The reputation of the Harvest Moon as a tightly run professional ship will be at stake." She turned to Grace. "Take Shelby to a cosmetics machine, right now. Show him how to work it. And let me see the result when you are done."

  There was no time for argument, and no suggestion that Lana Trask would listen if it were offered. Shelby trailed sheepishly along behind Grace, until she stopped at last before a narrow door.

  "This wasn't my idea," she said, "but I'll do the programming for you. Will you be all right inside?"

  "I guess so." He didn't want to admit, least of all to Grace, that he had been dreading this moment. Working with a machine like Logan was one thing. You could imagine it was just another person. Getting inside a machine, with your whole body, and standing helplessly while it did all manner of intimate things to you, was something else. He felt obliged to add, "I don't have any choice, do I?"

  Grace stared at him. "Not unless you're claustrophobic. Are you? I've heard that some Earth people are terrified of being shut up in small spaces. If that's the problem, I could come inside with you."

  "It's not that." Shelby finally admitted the truth. "I just don't like the idea of some machine feeling me and measuring me and trimming me."

  "Only your hair and nails. But you must have had all this before, back on Earth."

  He shook his head. "Never."

  "Then how did you . . ."

  "People. I had someone to measure me for clothes and make my suits. And someone else did massage
s, and other people gave me manicures and pedicures and haircuts."

  She was staring at him in disbelief. "You won't let a machine near you, but another person can cut your toenails? That is weird. You couldn't pay me enough to let strangers touch my body or get me to mess around with theirs."

  "It's their jobs," Shelby muttered. But Grace's disdain was so obvious that rather than face it any longer he opened the door and stepped through into the cosmetics machine.

  He closed his eyes and stood rigid as the door sealed automatically. A hundred unpleasant things were going to be done to him.